


Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon

by ingridmatthews



Series: Schmoop Bingo Fills [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes 2009
Genre: M/M, Schmoop, schmoop bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-17
Updated: 2010-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-10 04:06:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingridmatthews/pseuds/ingridmatthews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  For the Schmoop Bingo Challenge Prompt: Lazy Sunday</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon

The tiger rug is Holmes' chosen spot of floor-bound relaxation, usually. Only on rare occasions does Watson abscond it, usually when he's feeling fitter than usual, his leg not bothering him as badly as on most days.

Today is a bright Sunday. Church bells peal and sunlight streams in through the great windows of their shared sitting room. The weather is perfect, not too hot, not too cool and Watson is simply enjoying being alive, resting his head on their late tiger's skull. "We should name him," Watson says aloud to Holmes who is examining him with a tender fondness that no one else is privy to. "Poor beast gave his life for our decorative enjoyment, it's only right."

"It has a name. We call it 'The Rug'." Holmes gracefully drops down next to him. He lies on his side, propped up on his elbow. His hand starts to move in soothing, lazy circles over Watson's chest.

"I am the one with all the imagination, aren't I?" Watson closes his eyes to better lose himself in Holmes' touch. "I say Rajan or Randhir."

"Rug," Holmes replies with finality and they chuckle. "Save your pretty words for your stories. Speaking of which, are you doing any writing today?"

"Not a bit. Are you hunting down any criminals this fine day?"

"Nary a one." Holmes scoots closer and nuzzles Watson's cheek, simply because he can. "Aren't we the antithesis of productive Englishmen."

"The Empire will survive for a day. It's Sunday anyway. The Bible prescribes a day of sloth. Who are we to argue?" Watson stretches and his arms just happen to wind themselves around Holmes' neck. Their foreheads touch and Watson thinks that this might be as close to heaven as he'll ever get.

Holmes teases him with light kisses over his eyes, around the corners of his mouth. He doesn't protest, that would only inspire Holmes to more deviltry. He merely accepts Holmes' offerings languidly, curling one arm over his head in a careless attitude that he knows drives Holmes to distraction.

Of course, Holmes knows exactly what he's doing. Not that it really matters, because for all Holmes' eyebrow arches and wry smiles, he still can't resist taking whatever bait Watson dangles. Which is yet another reason to love him beyond all things.

Still, his kisses don't grow any more urgent, if anything they slow down to a decidedly unhurried pace. He slides his lips down Watson's neck; slow languorous presses of his mouth to a now-racing pulse and Watson starts to squirm.

"Holmes ..." he warns hoarsely.

"Shhh. No rush. It's Sunday, remember."

There's not much disagreeing with that, Watson supposes, giving himself over to the torture of Holmes' mouth and teasing fingers. At least he can reciprocate and he does, reveling in the little noises Holmes starts making when he licks around the whorl of his ear, murmuring endearments between each caress.

When Holmes' pulls back, his hair - and his eyes - are wild. "I'm feeling a little more energetic than I was previously. Perhaps we can move ourselves to a more private area? Such as the bed."

Watson grins and pretends to think about it. "But it's such a quiet, pleasant day. I'm not sure I can muster the energy to move."

With one lightning-quick movement, Holmes slides down and mouths Watson through his trousers, making the other man bolt upright with a gasp. Triumphantly, Holmes pulls Watson to his feet and drags him off in the direction the bedroom. "Say goodbye to Rug."

"Good-bye Rug," Watson mutters breathlessly, following a laughing Holmes straight to bed where a decidedly non-lazy afternoon is to be enjoyed.

~*~  
end


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